


The Great Escape

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 1920's-1940's, Ableism, Alternate Universe - Historical, And saying goodbye, Awkward Kissing, Corruption, Dancing, Empath Will Graham, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gaslighting, Hannibal is Hannibal, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mental Institutions, a LOT of references, somewhere in there, vague references to torture and electroconvulsive therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12150264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: Lecter frowned. He leaned closer, his breath hot against Will’s ear. “What are you so afraid of, Will? You’re beautiful like this.”“Someone’ll see,” Will protested lamely, choosing not to hear him.Lecter looked at him then, almost sad. “The world doesn’t see us, Will. They don’t wish to. Why do you think they leave us here?”He didn’t have much to say to that, so he followed Lecter’s lead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching a favorite film, Changeling (2008), and a specific part of the movie caught my attention and, as with everything, I thought “what if Hannigram?”

_“I’m always a little nervous going into these places. Afraid they’ll never let me out again.”_

_“Don’t worry,” Jack said, clapping Will on the shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you here.”_

_“Not today,” Will murmured._

In the end, it wasn’t Jack Crawford’s decision.

Detective Will Graham had visited the Baltimore State Mental Asylum once before, following his older and more experienced partner Jack Crawford on a tip that led them to the madhouse. Jack had been more irritable than usual in that place, on edge. It never did go anywhere, as I.J. “Multiple” Migs turned out to be a dead end, and Will never expected to return. That he would be tossed inside and locked away as a patient almost a year later was his worst nightmare come true.

His seafoam green eyes darted around wildly as he tripped up the steps and through the front doors, escorted by two younger officers on either side of him. They were his inferiors. Not that he was the type to remind them of it, but it was just another embarrassment to suffer, and it wouldn’t be the last. Inside, after being handed over and ushered into a small room, he gritted his teeth and hugged his sides as water sprayed so harshly against his naked skin that it hurt, and it was so cold it left him gasping for breath. He stood, shivering and dripping wet, while expressionless orderlies completed their inspection, lifting his doll like limbs and making a swift search through his hair and private areas. He closed his eyes and let it happen.

The chief of police made the decision to send him here, quietly and under the cover of night, while Jack Crawford was asleep in his bed. Will was a liability, a problem too shameful to admit to the public. Not with so much bad press already. It happened so fast—one moment he was in an office, defending himself against accusations over his mental state, and the next he was handcuffed and taken out back. He hoped that his kindhearted neighbor, Molly Foster, would notice his absence and take care of his dogs. He didn’t trust Jack to do it. Jack Crawford had promised to protect him, and he failed. No one else was supposed to know about Will Graham’s illness, because it was irrelevant. He was _saving lives_ , Jack had said. It didn’t matter that he could slide effortlessly into the mindset of everyday people, with such an uncanny accuracy that it was almost supernatural. It didn’t matter that he could see why criminals did the things they did, understanding their motives and thought patterns so completely that his word alone often solved entire cases. It didn’t matter that it was causing him great distress. He _helped_ people. And this was his reward for being Jack Crawford’s loyal bloodhound, for putting his sanity at risk in the name of justice.

“The doctor will see you in the morning,” a pudgy orderly said, leading him down a sickly green colored hallway. He felt nauseous at the sight and smell of it and threw up in his mouth a bit. One of the other orderlies behind him shoved him along. Whimpers echoed from one room. The rest of the rooms they passed were silent save for the occasional eruption of laughter at Will's arrival. The head orderly stopped in front of one of the doors and swung it open with a loud creak, peering inside.

“Lecter, new roommate. Sorry,” he said, without sounding sorry. “Play nice.”

Will’s legs suddenly didn’t want to work. The nightmare was too real. Hands grabbed his shoulders. For the first time since his arrival, he resisted.

“No, no, there’s been a mistake. I must speak with Detective Jack Crawford immediately. Do you hear me? I’m a detective, I don’t _belong_ here, _I don’t_ —”

Without a word, the orderlies pushed him inside and before he could regain his balance the outside lock latched. He grasped the bars on the tiny window and watched the figures retreat, all of them completely unsympathetic to his panic. He licked his dry lips and gasped for air, the stuffiness and tight space in the room already taking its toll on him. His new plain grey clothes didn’t fit, either, and he was still wet.

The whishing sound of paper brought him back to his senses. He turned his head and cataloged the contents of the room. There was another barred window, placed on the far wall that revealed the darkness outside with no moon to shed light on the view. A sad little desk stood in a corner of the room, piles of books and drawings stacked meticulously on top of it. Aside from that and a single toilet in full view, there were two beds pushed against opposite sides of the room. On the left, a man sat with his back pressed to the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, and an open book in his hand. His hooded eyes never looked up. He simply turned the page.

Will was not reassured. He scanned the room again before taking a tentative step toward the empty bed. His bed, now. There was no pillow, no sheets, and the springs were poking through the mattress. He crawled onto it anyway, facing the wall, away from the other man in the room. His body shook with cold and fear and he waited for an outburst, for hands, but nothing happened. His roommate was surprisingly docile, not the sort of crazy he had imagined on the way here. He considered asking for a spare blanket, but his throat tightened and the thought of initiating a conversation with a stranger in this god forsaken place made something warm trickle past his eyes and race down his cheeks. The sterile smell was less strong in this room, overpowered by the fresh air filtering through the window and the faint scent of cigarette smoke, he noted. He tried to sleep, but someone started having a fit down the hall. 

The lights went out.

 

* * *

 

He jerked awake, his breaths uneven when the door opened the next morning to reveal a stone-faced orderly who announced the dining hall would open in thirty minutes. They walked away and Will could see people shuffling along in the hallway, dressed in the same uniform. Some walked together but most were by themselves, either aimless or lost or so extremely focused on the task at hand that they almost seemed normal.

The room looked a bit different cast in the natural light from the window, just as small but less intimidating. His roommate was already dressed, bed tidied, and passing through the open door without a word exchanged between them. As if Will didn’t exist. Perhaps that was how the arrangement should be, Will thought. This wouldn’t be permanent and he didn’t want to cause trouble. And he really didn’t want to leave his bed, to learn anything else about this awful place, but his stomach ached with hunger and his limbs needed stretching. He sighed heavily and touched his bare feet to the floor. He came out of the room like a wild animal leaving its burrow, wary and only a few inches at a time, ready to bolt at any moment. He spotted an attendant.

“I need to see the doctor,” he said quickly as they passed. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“The dining room is down the hall,” the orderly replied. It was the same one from yesterday. His eyes lingered on him in a way that made him uncomfortable, but the man pursed his lips and turned away. “The doctor will call for you when he’s ready.”

Will opened his mouth to object, but the attendant was already gone.

Keeping to the back of the crowd, Will followed the lazily moving line into the dining hall and tried not to make a face at the slop handed to him on a tray. The hall was coated in the same gross green paint, but it was roomier than his bedroom and it felt a bit like a cafeteria. If he closed his eyes and listened to the low murmur of dragging feet and whispering patients he could imagine he was somewhere else. Someone brushed past him roughly and he startled, taking a seat at the nearest empty table.

The coffee was gross and watery. He stared at the food and nudged it experimentally with his spoon. His previously healthy appetite dwindled down to nothing.

A broad-shouldered figure sat down across from him without introduction. A tray followed, and in his peripheral Will could see the man was resting his elbows against the table, hands clasped together and head perched on top. Will risked a nervous glance upward.

His roommate's eyes were the shade of old blood, a color Will knew too well, amber on the side of his face where the light hit. It was the first thing Will noticed about him. The second thing was his impressively sharp cheekbones, and then his greying short hair, and the muscles in his arms, where the uniform hugged his form. But he wasn’t talking, or blinking. 

He’s crazy, Will supposed, chastising himself. He should have expected this sort of behavior, and he shouldn’t be reacting to it. He picked up his spoon as an excuse to busy himself, but the older man leaned forward and Will heard him inhale. He was sniffing.

“Did you just smell me?” fell out of Will’s mouth faster than he could stop it.

“Last night you mentioned Jack Crawford,” the man said immediately, his words surprising Will as much as the thick accent he couldn’t place. “How is he?”

“I-I don’t—” Will stammered. “Do you know him? Who are you?”

“I do,” the man confirmed. He held out his hand. “My name is Hannibal Lecter.”

Will kept his hands to himself. “Will Graham.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Will.”

Unbelievable. The man had manners, and conducted himself like a proper gentleman. He seemed saner than half the men Will worked with on the force, and was a far cry from the sobbing heap just a table away from them, or the catatonic one standing in the middle of the room. “How do you know Jack?” Will asked, feeling suspicious.

“Old friends,” Lecter said with a smile, and Will noticed his pointed teeth. “His wife was a lovely woman.”

“Wait, you knew Bella?”

Lecter’s intense gaze drifted away, landing on Will’s tray. “I know it’s disgusting, but you must eat. Eating is normal. If you want any chance of getting out of this place, you’ll have to put up with…I don’t know what this is supposed to be,” Lecter admitted, eyeing the slop as if it had wronged him somehow.

“Why are you talking to me now?”

“I suspected you were too overwhelmed to speak with me yesterday,” Lecter said. “And because I’ve decided you aren’t insane.”

Nearly jumping out of his uniform, Will leaned into their shared space. Lecter’s half-lidded eyes widened with interest. “I’m not insane,” Will agreed hastily.

“You will be,” Lecter said, crushing his enthusiasm straight away. “Or they will say so, unless you eat. And you should stop claiming you aren’t insane. It only makes you look worse. Surely you must know better.” With that, Lecter started eating his own breakfast. He made it look easy, like he didn’t despise every damn second of it.

“Why are you here? You don’t look like a lunatic.”

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” Lecter said. “We both pissed off the police.”

Will didn’t have time to ask what he meant. An orderly called his name and he was eager to leave the foreigner behind, forgetting his tray and Lecter’s advice. He rubbed at the goosebumps on his arms as the orderly led him from the dining hall.

The moment he saw the doctor sitting behind his desk with a needlessly smug smile pasted on his face, never bothering to stand, Will realized Lecter was right. He needed to play this carefully. He couldn’t count on Jack.

“Sit down Mister Graham,” the doctor said, and Will did, reading the engraved name propped up on his desk. _'Frederick Chilton.'_

Chilton consulted his clipboard for several seconds too long, flipping papers back and forth. “Will Graham,” he said, drawing out the name, as if he disapproved. “You told my nurses that you don’t ‘belong here,’” he quoted. “But it says right here you were an active danger to the force and the citizens of Baltimore. You’ve been suspended from the police department. Permanently.”

“I—I’ve never harmed anyone in my life, sir,” Will said, straining to keep his voice in check. Suspended? “Hell, I take home every stray dog I see.”

“Mhm,” Chilton hummed. “Not what it says here.”

Indignant, Will straightened up in his seat and tried to see what was on the clipboard. Chilton tilted it away from him so that he couldn’t. “What does it say?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Lies about my character, those do concern me—”

“Lies? Do you feel persecuted often, Mister Graham?”

“Do I—what?”

“How often do you experience these feelings? Are you paranoid, do you fear you’re being tormented, ridiculed?”

“I don’t _experience_ any of those things!” Will snapped. “I’m not crazy, I was framed!”

“Hmm,” Chilton answered, and wrote something down. “Aggression.”

Will rested his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. “Doctor. There has been a terrible, terrible mistake, and I need to speak with my partner. He’ll sort out this mess. It’s a misunderstanding.”

Chilton wrote some more, his eyes never meeting Will’s. “You’ll be eligible for visitors in a couple of weeks. It's a privilege, not a right, you realize.”

He answered the rest of Chilton’s questions coldly, without added commentary, but Chilton continued to treat him as if he were simply confused. I can’t win, Will realized with panic. He was quivering and almost sick with grief when he stepped outside the room, and jerked his head up in fear when an orderly put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll get easier once you learn the schedule,” the orderly said, his tone naturally soft and comforting. His smile was genuine and Will could have cried. “I saw you talkin’ with Doctor Lecter. If he’s already taken a liking to you, you’ll be fine, but you’ve got to be polite. Otherwise you might want to request a new room soon as you can. He can make your life real easy, or real hard.”

“Doctor?” Will echoed dumbly.

“Oh, yes, he was a surgeon,” the orderly said, correcting himself. “I’m Barney, by the way.”

“I’m sorry,” Chilton said, appearing in the doorway of his office, so disturbed that he was standing on his own two feet. The shocked expression on his face was enough to soothe Will’s despair for a bit. “Did you say Lecter _talked?_ To _him?_ ”

“Sure did,” Barney said pleasantly. “Surprised me, too.”

Chilton looked on the verge of a fit. “Send Lecter to me,” he growled, retreating into his office while grumbling under his breath.

Barney shot Will an apologetic look and urged him to keep walking. Once they were out of earshot, Barney slowed their pace and lowered his voice. “Lecter don’t talk much,” he explained. “He talks to me a little, I think because I treat him how he wants to be treated, but he’s only spoken a few words to Doctor Chilton since he was admitted about five years ago. It’s usually an insult. Well-earned, if you ask me, but you didn’t, so you didn’t hear that. Is there anything you need, Mister Graham?”

“I don’t have sheets,” Will said reluctantly, his mind racing with the new information.

“You do now. It’ll make up for the springs a bit. You’ve got shoes and a pillow too. Doctor Lecter let me know first thing this morning, I took care of it while you were at breakfast.”

“Oh.” Will scrambled to find the right words. “Thank you, Barney. I appreciate it. Where are we going now?”

“Well, it’s time to take your medicine, Mister Graham. Then I suppose you’ll be joining the rest of the unit in daily group therapy.”

Just like that, the illusion of safety was shattered.

Barney dropped him off at yet another line of patients, this time at a nurse’s station where he was handed two small cups. A brightly colored pill rested in one cup with water in the other. He lifted his eyes to a young nurse that smiled warmly at him, until he spoke. “Can I ask what this is? I don’t want to take something if I don’t know what it is.” It seemed like an acceptable request.

“It’s good for you,” she answered, uncertain. “It will make you feel better?”

He refrained from rolling his eyes and swallowed the pill. He considered showering her his tongue. 

He saw Lecter walking freely toward the exit and in a bizarre, unintentional way, he apparently caught Lecter’s attention. Lecter parted his lips and showed off the bright pill held between his teeth, just long enough for Will to notice. He winked and left.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Midway through group therapy, Will’s eyelids drooped and a relieving sense of calm washed over him for the first time since his arrival, causing him to sag forward in his seat with his arms lying heavily in his lap and his legs stretched out on the floor. It should have alarmed him, just how agreeable the medicine made him, but in that moment, it was a welcome escape from his rather unfortunate situation. He could _think_ , albeit slower than he would have preferred. He caught himself staring at Lecter several seats away, wondering why the man would turn down such easy bliss—and he realized Lecter was staring back at him, had been for some time, perhaps long before Will’s tired eyes had moseyed his way in the first place. He averted his gaze, but he still felt those blood amber eyes traveling his face, his body, and the over sized clothes he wore. It made his skin crawl, but he had trouble deciding if it was _uncomfortable._

Everyone from Will’s unit was expected to participate, sitting quietly if they had the good sense to do so, while a nurse with a clipboard questioned them one after the other. They were roughly the same questions each time, despite most patients having such wildly different backgrounds and diagnoses. When he focused, Will managed to catch a few interesting bits of information about his fellows, but he didn’t miss the fact that Lecter’s presence was mostly ignored by the nurse. What Barney had said about Lecter playing at being mute must have been correct. The nurse had no patience for his game, so Will assumed she had given up long ago. Lecter seemed content to watch, his spine straight and chin lifted, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. If it had been anyone else in that silly uniform presenting himself like an aristocrat, Will would have snorted. He found that he couldn’t.

The nurse opened a discussion on a murder committed by a shy, quiet man who resembled a terrified bird more than a criminal, whose motor skills were hindered and his demeanor very unassuming, compliant. He reminded Will of a boy taking the fall for an older, meaner sibling. It was out of duty that he answered the nurse’s questions. His hesitance was not born of regret, because he felt no regret. Peter Bernardone, Will learned, had done something quite horrific. And yet as Will listened, he did not believe it to be true. At first Will wondered if his judgment had been clouded, because when the conversation shifted to a fidgety, short Franklyn Froideveaux, he didn’t believe the nurse’s tale then, either. While Will dragged his eyes over each of the patients individually, something became clear to him. Plenty of these people were innocent. The official reasons for their detainment were outright lies, or twisted versions of the truth. This was the police department’s dumping ground for those deemed _inconvenient._

Nauseous and fearing he would vomit if he dared to open his mouth, Will avoided the nurse’s attention when it came, waiting her out in silence. He felt the edge of Lecter’s lazy, catlike amusement before he saw it. When the patients were at last released for an hour of recreation, Will hurried after the crowd, too exhausted and scattered for confrontation.

After being escorted to a room larger than the previous one, but equally green, he found a dark corner and planted himself there. The solid wall against his back provided support for his trembling limbs. Faces that were now familiar to him separated into their natural groups or remained alone. Franklyn was begging Peter to play a card game, unintentionally loud with his encouragements. Will watched how Franklyn designated himself as Peter’s caretaker, fussing over him good-naturedly, for all the debilitating anxiety thrumming within him. Will felt his lips twitch upward in a sad smile. He was so engrossed in their interaction that he did not notice right away the sharp-eyed man prowling up to him, until a wave of body heat blasted against his side.

“A little birdie told me you’re a detective, or you were before last night,” the stranger purred, and Will couldn’t tell if he meant to be cruel or playful. “Did they tire of you, puppy?”

Will was at a loss, so he didn’t say anything.

“Don’t look so afraid. I bite, but I won’t bite you. A friend of Lecter is a friend of mine,” the man said. “Abel Gideon.”

Perhaps it was because of the drug or good old-fashioned shock, but Will shook the hand offered to him. “Will Graham.”

“Yes, I heard,” Abel said, patting Will’s shoulder two times. When he was done he wiped his hand on his shirt. “All right, detective. Surprise is all over your pretty face, so I’m assuming you never knew how deep the corruption of your department goes. Poor you.”

“Not until last night,” Will muttered sorely.

“You see them,” Abel said, looking at Franklyn and Peter. “Do you know why Peter is here? It’s _not_ because he was kicked in the head by a horse, which did happen, or because he supposedly killed a woman. Poor fellow just happened to be nearby, and he was easiest to blame. Being different, it scares people. _You_ know. And Franklyn there, he witnessed something he shouldn’t have, and he has a very big mouth. I can’t blame them for that one.”

“And you?”

“I killed my wife.”

When Abel didn’t recant his confession, Will shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“If there is any hope for us getting out of this place, it would be you, Mister Graham.”

“Me?”

“You have connections to the outside.”

“I thought I did,” Will corrected him. 

“Jack Crawford, no?”

Christ almighty! Will thought. “Do _all_ of you know Jack?”

“You sad, lost little dog,” Abel said, scowling. “He _put_ Lecter here. He had it in his head Lecter was fucking his wife.”

Blood pounded in his ears so deafeningly that he almost didn’t hear Abel’s following request, that he appeal to his partner as soon as he was permitted visitors, and should Will walk free, not to forget the innocent men he would be leaving behind.

Would Jack Crawford, his partner for nearly half a decade, have kept this from him?

In short, yes.

In the heat of the moment, his hotheaded, impulsive friend would do such a thing, but to let it go on for five years, unspoken and not at all weighing on his mind? Will’s eyes widened and his lungs screamed as a new fear gripped him—what if _Jack_ did this to him? But that wouldn't make any sense. Jack believed in Will’s gift, believed in their mission. Jack’s mission. No, Jack was fighting to set Will free, probably at this very moment, and to think otherwise was silly.

At the end of the hour Will’s empty stomach was overjoyed to hear that lunch was ready. He practically inhaled his tray, no matter how bland, or how much it resembled sick. Apparently, this pleased a nurse. She praised him like a dog who had just licked his bowl clean. Frowning at the treatment, he wondered what she would do if he barked. Lecter would probably find that funny. When he thought to look around, he couldn’t find Lecter anywhere. Between quick bites, lest he taste the food for longer than necessary, he kept an eye out for him. Lunch went by without incident and without so much as a sighting. Yet he couldn’t shake the familiar feeling of being watched. He expected to see those jarring maroon eyes everywhere. With his belly full and his head still fuzzy with the drug, Will saw no point in resisting when the orderlies herded them back toward their rooms like sheep. He was eager to sleep, though he couldn’t imagine how he was going to spend his time afterward. The thought was maddening, and it was just his first day in the institution.

Over the sound of shoes sliding across the floor and hushed, mumbling nonsense, he heard Abel’s voice echoing down the hall, particularly sarcastic. Will peered around a slow-moving old man to get a better view, catching just the last bit of an inflammatory remark. Abel had a smirk on his face. He was provoking the same unpleasant orderly that had first taken Will to his room and looked at him so weirdly the following morning. Was Abel always so confrontational?

He froze in disbelief when the orderly lashed out, his closed fist connecting with Abel’s face and sending him to the ground.

The orderly started to kick him in the stomach and ribs. A few patients scattered until rounded up. Others dispersed more calmly, or watched, and none of the other orderlies seemed roused by the display of abuse in front of them. No one responded to the pained grunts and cries.

“Stop, stop it!” Will shouted, taking a step forward, but strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him flat against a hard chest. Will wriggled helplessly in the impossibly tight grip, digging his nails into flesh.

“Don’t,” Lecter said in his ear.

“He can’t do that to him!” Will hissed. “Let go of me!”

“Not only will they beat you for interfering, but Mister Doemling will do far worse. Be still,” Lecter snarled, and the commanding tone of his voice, rumbling against Will’s spine, startled Will into going limp.

He watched in unblinking horror as Abel was pummeled into a bloody heap on the ground. By the time it stopped, Will was hardly able to stand, and Lecter supported most of his weight. He could _feel_ the pain. He shook and his hand was squeezing Lecter’s so hard that it must have hurt, but he couldn’t make himself let go, and Lecter didn’t stop him. Will never took his eyes off Abel’s barely breathing form as Lecter dragged him to their room, where a nervous orderly slammed the door shut after them, happy to let someone else deal with Will’s meltdown.

Lecter set him down on his bed, now clad with sheets and two blankets and a flat pillow. After an insistent but gentle tugging on his arm, Will realized he was still holding onto Lecter’s hand, and Lecter wanted it back. Will closed his eyes and let go. “Stubborn boy,” Lecter murmured, sounding exasperated more than anything. Will heard him searching for something, and suddenly there was the scratch of a lit match and Will eagerly accepted the cigarette pushed between his lips.

“They can’t do that,” he repeated numbly.

“They can,” Lecter said. “You can’t save us all, detective. Welcome to the Baltimore State Mental Asylum.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Abel is irritatingly resilient.”

Will licked his lips and a laugh slipped out, turning into a hiccup. His fingers shook around the cigarette. “I hate this,” he said quietly. “This isn’t happening.”

“Perhaps you should skip your medication from now on,” Lecter suggested. “Your detachment upsets you. It is also unhealthy.”

Will sniffed. “That man, his name is Doemling?”

“Cordell. You do not want to upset him, Will, if you prefer to remain intact. I mean that literally. How much do you value your manhood?”

His throat tightened and another wave of nausea overtook him. “What?”

“He is best known for his cruelty.”

“Doemling, he—he looked at me this morning. I haven't done anything to him, but should I be worried?”

Lecter frowned and Will felt sick again. “If you would like to stay close to me, I won’t mind. I am usually left to my own devices these days.”  

“I won’t be here long,” Will insisted. “Jack is coming for me.”

Lecter hummed, unconvinced, and his disapproval reminded Will of all he had heard and learned throughout the day, which admittedly was not much. He watched Lecter pace leisurely around the cramped room, stretching his legs as if he hadn’t already been given plenty of time to roam about. 

“Abel talked to me earlier,” Will said. “He told me why some of you are here, the unofficial stories.”

“What did you learn?”

“We’re here because we pissed off the police,” Will said, bringing up Lecter’s earlier statement. He paused. “Abel didn’t say much about your situation, though,” he lied.

“Abel knows very little. Don’t think you will be different,” Lecter added, to the rising curiosity in Will’s expression. “Frederick is being blackmailed. The cause of my ‘insanity’ does not matter. But his underlings ask questions when they realize a portion of us are in fact relatively sane. As a result, his reasoning changes on a yearly basis. For example, this year it’s my supposed preference for male company.”

“Oh,” Will huffed, chewing thoughtlessly on the end the cigarette and letting it burn.

“Although, it holds some truth.”

Coughing, Will yanked it out of his mouth waved away the smoke. “ _Oh._ ”

“That doesn’t upset you, does it?”

“No, no,” Will choked, clearing his throat until he coughed again, making an unintentionally loud fuss. “That’s not what I—no. I mean I, I know people like. That.”

Not exactly true, but he had connections with people who did know people, in cities where the freedom of wild nightlife activities made it more likely to be tolerated, if not accepted by a small section of society. Truthfully, with Lecter’s mannerisms, the thought of him donning an expensive suit surrounded by upbeat music and drunken admirers within a grand spectrum of color and gaudy jewelry, women who dared to cut their hair short and smoke, that life somehow seemed… _fitting._ That was almost definitely the sort of life this man lived, filled to the brim with extravagance and pretentiousness, before… _this._

“Something amuses you.”

Will rubbed at his face and eyes. His tight smile was more from sadness than amusement. “I’m just tired and confused, probably in shock. I always worried this would happen to me, but it seemed so far away…”

“Why? Why are you here, Will?”

“If I tell you, you’ll change your mind about me. You'll say I'm insane.”

Lecter took a seat on the edge of his bed, his interest captured. “I find you interesting, not insane.”  

“Well, I…”

Why was it suddenly so easy to speak when he’d had such trouble all his life?

It must have had something to do with being thrown into an entirely different, surreal world with new rules, and between all the dizzying spinning, Lecter had been the first stable thing within his reach. Lecter had been kind to him, in his own way, and their proximity didn’t bother Will such as it might outside these walls. Sharing a space with Lecter, a stranger and a peculiar one at that, didn’t stir any feelings of resentment, and Will had always thought of himself as solitary. Didn’t that mean something?

“I see things,” Will said, making his decision. “I make leaps that my partner can’t explain, but it’s not that, the evidence is _there_ , just…I can see it, what no one else sees. When I close my eyes, I am the… I understand the way they think, so much that it terrifies me, and I can’t shake them when the case ends. It stays with me, in my head. And more are coming.” He looked up. “It isn’t always work-related. When I saw Abel being beaten, I got carried away. I was immersed, I felt the punches as if we were physically connected. It happens sometimes. I could do that with anyone. With you.”

Lecter’s eyes had widened slightly and they bore into Will’s without apology, utterly captivated by his words. For a brief, slippery moment Will felt he had been seen also, his blood and bones and soul stretched on display.

“Fascinating,” Lecter said.

 

* * *

 

Will established a daily routine: he would wake up, eat, pretend to swallow his medicine, go to therapy, play cards with Franklyn and Peter, eat lunch, return to his room, eat dinner, spit out his nighttime dose, and often, debate various topics with Lecter until the lights went out. If they were engrossed, they carried on deep into the night. When Lecter spoke in riddles, Will fell into the habit of picking them apart, or if he was feeling especially playful, spitting back complete nonsense just to irritate him. In all his adult life, Will had never talked so much, and he spoke _freely._ It was a privilege that had been denied to him always, but with Lecter nothing was too radical or off limits to discuss. The darkness that burrowed within Will’s heart was never met with fear or disgust, but instead dusted off and examined with the most delicate care.

With his profession and its toll, it had been some time since he could sit down and breeze through a book—he borrowed the few in Lecter’s possession, at first only at Lecter’s insistence. It was difficult reading, but he revisited stories at his leisure and discovered something new each time. One of the books was in French and he could translate almost none of it on his own, but it provided him with something to do. There was no such thing as lack of time within those walls. If it weren’t for Lecter’s company, Will would have genuinely lost his mind. The encouragement to read started as an attempt to distract Will from asking the most foolish questions he could think to ask whenever he grew bored, which was frequently. He enjoyed testing their boundaries and it relieved some of his tension. There was something to be said about the way Lecter’s upper lip twitched when Will pestered him, or his uncharacteristically poor mood in the late night and early morning, when it was coldest in their room. It was amusing until the low temperature started to affect Will’s old wounds and aches, as well. If Will teased too much, Lecter would close his eyes and go elsewhere without moving a muscle; no matter how hard Will tried to grasp his attention, Lecter would not break, returning only voluntarily. It was a special skill Will might be able to acquire if he was trapped in the asylum long enough.

The institution had a strict no-touching policy that Will did not break intentionally, but the touches they exchanged were thoughtless, without intent. Lecter had a habit of touching Will’s face, which Will found he didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if they were lying all over one other out in the open, but Will still felt himself flush whenever a sharp “Lecter, Graham!” sounded in their general direction. He couldn’t explain why, but the shaming felt deserved.

Precisely three weeks after his arrival, Will was busy peering over Hannibal’s shoulder to study the sketches laid out on his desk, speechless with appreciation, when the door to their room swung open and Chilton strolled inside. Too late, Will realized his hands were placed on Hannibal’s back, meant for balancing himself. But touching was not the issue.

Chilton grudgingly informed him he had a visitor.

Will noted with growing dread that Chilton stayed behind, looking increasingly agitated as Lecter ignored him in favor of reorganizing his belongings. Barney escorted Will out of sight, into a secluded part of the building where Will and Jack Crawford had interrogated I.J. Miggs over a year ago. Respectful of Will’s need to collect himself, Barney didn’t offer his usual friendly small talk. He let Will into the room where Jack awaited his arrival, and closed the door.

Will wasn’t prepared for the bone-crushing hug that lifted him off the ground, or the jolt of panic it provoked. He swallowed it back.

“Good news,” Jack said, setting Will down when he mostly just dangled there. “I’m working on it, you hear? I haven’t forgotten you.”

“I hear you,” Will said tonelessly, dropping into the seat opposite his former partner. “Are you still a detective?”

“Not for much longer, I’d guess. I’ve been a constant pain in the chief’s ass for weeks, and I’ve talked to the papers. Freddy Lounds picked up your story. You’re officially a hero. It wasn’t cheap, but he’s good at what he does, I’ll give him that. There will be protests in the streets by the end of next month. Not only will you walk free, but the department might get cleaned out. You and I could be back in business.”

“Jack—”

“You wouldn’t have to hide it anymore, Will, we can work out in the open. Can you imagine how many lives we’ll save?”

“Jack, we need to talk.”

“I thought we were talking,” Jack said.

He looked well, plump and rested compared to the partner who had lost a lot more than just weight and muscle.

A righteous anger bubbled promisingly in Will’s veins. “People are being mistreated here,” he said.

Jack put on a deceivingly blank look that screamed dishonesty. “Will, listen. These things are delicate. If we’re going to get you out, we make a deal with Chilton. We can’t be shutting down the whole facility.”

“I don’t believe it,” Will spat, standing so quickly that his head spun and he nearly fell over. He could only pace for a few moments, strengthened by blind fury. “ _Saving lives_ , hmm? Until they’re inconvenient.”

Jack was suspiciously silent, processing Will’s frustration and what he had said. 

He stalked back to the table, pressing his palms down to steady himself. “How many people did you lock away in here? How many did you know about? And don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Who have you been talking to, Will?” Jack asked, dangerously quiet. It sent a chill down Will’s spine, but he held his ground. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Will licked his lips, saying nothing. He flinched when Jack slammed down a heavy fist, inching away from the table a little. “I’m not the one who needs to confess,” Will said, his answer ripped from him. His voice wavered.

Jack pointed his finger, arm unsteady, contemplating his next course of action. “He got to you,” he said slowly. “Didn’t he? Now you listen to me, Will, stay away from him. He’s unstable.”

“He’s been a friend to me,” Will spat. “Where have you been?”

“I told you where I’ve been!”

Will shook his head. “Before this, when I was drinking myself to death and you couldn’t even look me in the eye, when you were going to let the work kill me—”

“You think he's any better?” Jack raised his voice and Will felt his shoulders lowering almost automatically. “You want to know why I put him here? Hannibal is the reason my Bella left me. She was dying. She wasn’t thinking straight, and we were fighting, and do you know who was there? Our dearest friend. Respected her wishes when she wanted to waste the time she had left traveling the country with him, and not with me.”

Will opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to apologize, but Jack cut him off.

“My wife spent her last days with him because she couldn’t stand me. He might as well have killed her. But she died happy. He made her happy. I will never forgive him for that.” Jack _s_ neered. “When he did come back, without her…I used to drop by and watch, but it turns out I don’t have the stomach for torture. Neither does Frederick. He tiptoes around after what he let happen those first few weeks, afraid Lecter will kill him when he gets the chance.”

“But you left him here,” Will pointed out. He trembled with disbelief. “You could have taken it back. It’s been years, Jack.”

“No. I’d gone too far in my grief. I was too ashamed, and then it was too late. It wasn't safe—what they did changed him, or maybe it brought out what was already there. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. It's better this way.”

All the anger drained out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and used. “Free the both of us, Jack, or I’m not leaving. I’ll never look at another crime scene for as long as I live.”

“He will use you. He'll use you to get back at me, Will. He already is.”

“It’s not just him, it’s all of them. These are the lives you should be so concerned about. _You_ ruined them.”

Will stood.

Jack smiled without humor. “You too, then, huh? This is how it's going to be?”

Will swallowed. “Goodbye, Jack.”

“I won’t be able to protect you. He’ll make it hurt.” Jack’s knuckles rapped against the rickety table. When Will didn’t stop walking he added, louder, “I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can, Will.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story wasn’t nearly as successful as I wanted it to be, but it’s still my baby, so I’ve finished it and it’s earned a place in my heart along with the rest. I did this for myself. It’s just as good as it would be if it had been a hit and that greatly pleases me. A heartfelt thank you to those who read it and enjoyed it, whether you told me so or not, because it does matter. <3

Bits of paper sticking to the walls fluttered like broken wings in the breeze sweeping in from the little window overlooking the outside world. The room was stripped of everything but the bare minimum. His books— _Lecter’s_ books—were missing, and his sketches violently ripped from the walls. The only thing to settle the wild thrum in Will’s chest and the surge of fire in his blood was that Lecter remained, untouched, sitting on his bed with his back to the wall, indifferent to the emptiness of their cell.

It steadied Will’s pulse, somewhat.

“Frederick is attempting to discipline me,” Lecter explained, without opening his eyes. He resembled a cat well-pleased with himself. His belongings being taken away in a jealous rage didn’t bother him in the slightest. “It unfortunately involves inconveniencing you, as well. We will have to resort to entertaining ourselves with conversation. How is Uncle Jack?”

Suddenly feeling inexplicably warm, _fond_ , and overall overwhelmed with information, and exhilarated from denying Jack to his face, Will crawled onto Lecter’s perfectly made bed. He savored the way his blood-colored eyes shot open, rounded and genuinely surprised when Will got close enough to taste his breath, to feel how it stuttered and quickened against his own lips. But they didn’t touch.

“I know,” Will said.

After a pause, Lecter repeated thoughtfully, “You know.”

Will waited patiently for the realization to show, but Lecter remained unfazed. In truth he looked mesmerized, too focused on their nearness to think of much else, so Will licked his lips and spoke, breaking the silence, “I know about Bella.”

“Do you?” Lecter asked, completely disinterested with the words and their implications, his eyes flicking to Will’s tongue and studying the way it darted past his lips and slid back into his mouth.

There was a subtle trembling in Will’s limbs, and it wasn’t entirely from holding himself upright. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. For Bella, for what Jack did to you.”

“I don’t indulge much in regret, but…” Lecter leaned forward, their noses almost brushing. Will stayed himself before he could instinctively sway back. “I was going to kill you, or at least maim you a little,” Lecter confessed. “However I’ve grown used to seeing your face.”

Will managed a helpless shrug.

“That doesn’t upset you?”

Why didn’t it?

“You’ve drawn my face a hundred times in a hundred different ways,” Will said. “I’ve watched you do it.” And where Lecter was normally quite honest, through his drawings, Lecter saw him in a much more pleasant light than what was realistic. “You haven’t thought seriously about killing me since you first spoke with me. Before, I have no doubt. But not after, no.”

They had found a friend in each other in this lonely, god forsaken prison shrouded in hospital’s clothing.

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes,” Will said, masking the barest hint of nervousness at Lecter’s insistence that he think again. “But I suppose keeping me alive yet alienated from Jack Crawford, that might be a sweeter revenge for you than outright killing me. A constant reminder to him of his failing Bella, losing her to you. If you need more reason to keep me alive than just my looks, that is.”

Lecter only hummed, briefly meeting his eyes before tracing the rest of Will’s face with blown pupils once again, the touch just as intimate as the sensation of fingertips ghosting against his skin.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Will asked.

“Because you are currently seated in my lap, detective. What am I supposed to think?” Lecter tilted his head. “People will talk,” he added, a gentle warning. It was playful, Will realized.

It occurred to him then that their proximity did not bother him enough for him to remove himself. Did this place bring it out in him, the way it supposedly brought out the monster in Hannibal Lecter?

It was freeing, whatever it was.

Will moved with the nervous confidence of a boy kissing a girl for the first time, but as a man kissing another man. It was infinitely clumsier than his actual first kiss, and that was his fault, but this kiss he felt in his core. He kept his mouth mostly closed and was relieved when Lecter followed his lead, though it might have been unintentional. Will felt him stiffen, his muscles seizing in apprehension, but the moment passed. Sure hands cupped Will’s jaw, smoothing his cheek as fingers curled into his hair, massaging the back of his neck, and _it_ happened. Will opened his mouth on a gasp so sudden and openly starving that he scared himself, retreating. Seafoam eyes clashed with half-lidded maroon, both awake at the scent of blood mixing in the water.

“Oh,” Will said.

Lecter flashed his fangs, not pushing for more, but extremely satisfied with Will’s attempt. “Will, I had hoped, but I did not know you were _‘like that,’_ ” he quoted, sounding curiously soft. It made Will unreasonably angry.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” he said defensively as he felt his face flush. He rubbed at his burning skin but it simply wouldn’t go away. “Chilton didn’t find the cigarettes, did he?”

As they shared in a companionable silence, the last few minutes virtually forgotten, he couldn’t keep himself from smiling at the thought of his lips touching the place Lecter’s had been. He felt giddy.

 

* * *

 

“What did they do to you?” Will had asked him, when they were locked in for the night.

Lecter had looked at him in the moonlight and said patiently, without an ounce of anger but with deadly seriousness, “Do not ask me that again.”

So Will didn’t.

He didn’t try to kiss Lecter again, and much to his disappointment, Lecter didn’t try to kiss him.

Not until the day he walked free.

 

* * *

 

Instead of joining their daily group therapy, he stood in the middle of a room full of equally disturbed individuals, each of them eyeing the record player and the abnormally happy instructor with fear and suspicion. ‘ _Enrichment_ ,’ a nurse had called it. Franklyn’s eyes lit up like a night sky in the countryside and Abel scowled at his enthusiasm with obvious disgust. Will couldn’t be sure which bit Abel was irritated with most; the actual dancing, or being Franklyn’s second choice when Peter timidly turned him down in favor of watching the event from his wheelchair.  

“Same sex dancing?” Will asked skeptically.

“The only way they’ll allow it,” Lecter supplied in his ear, and for the first time in weeks Will experienced a sharp wave of fear that rivaled what he felt during their forgotten kiss. “I much prefer it when they bring in the opera singers for a little _sound therapy._ ” His pause was filled with purpose and Will dreaded the conclusion. “But seeing as I’m fortunate enough to have a partner this morning…”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Will said stubbornly, just as the instructor began flitting around the room and sorting the more reluctant patients into pairs. Lecter held out his hand expectantly. “ _No._ ”

“Humor me, detective. I promise it won’t kill you.”

“I can’t dance,” Will insisted. The instructor was closing in.

“Don’t insult me.”  

“Okay, I don’t _like_ it,” Will gritted out. “It’s boring.”

“Not with me.”

Will snatched Lecter’s hand and showed it to the instructor.

“Happy?” he asked them both.

Lecter practically beamed.

The music began too fast for Will’s comfort and he hadn’t quite memorized the moves yet when the instructor let them off leash, so to speak, encouraging everyone to try for themselves. It was a mess, as Will could have predicted if anyone had bothered to ask for his opinion. He watched men with no rhythm trip over themselves, and a few who cried out in frustration, but Will laughed when he spotted Franklyn having the time of his life terrorizing a burly and frowning man Will recognized simply as Francis. It was like watching a large dog puzzle over a flea.

“You’re laughing,” Lecter observed. “It’s not all bad then?”

“Guess not,” Will admitted reluctantly, focusing then on the quick, skilled steps Lecter was making. “My goodness, where is that energy coming from?” he teased, but something about the way the man moved gave him pause. He was so unlike any man he’d ever seen, not with such graceful, fluid motions. Quite suddenly Will couldn’t take his eyes off him. He seemed years younger—back again in his element. Will mimicked him with all that he had and soon discovered that Lecter was toying with him, curious to see if Will had the stamina to keep up. His eyes never left him for a second. Will caught himself smiling at him.

“You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” he asked, very much out of breath and out of shape. Now more than ever, he could see the shadow of the man Lecter once was, and he was _something._

“Yes,” Lecter said. The music transitioned, heavenly slow, and Will prepared to take a much-needed break while the instructor spoke over the song.

But fingers gently grasped his, startling him, and he could do little more than quietly obey when Lecter spoke to him in a low tone he couldn’t understand over the white noise in the room, pulling him in. When hands landed securely on his hips, Will opened his mouth to object, but nothing came out. What could he say?  

Lecter frowned. He leaned closer, his breath hot against Will’s ear. “What are you so afraid of, Will? You’re beautiful like this.”

“Someone’ll see,” Will protested lamely, choosing not to hear him.

Lecter looked at him then, almost sad. “The world doesn’t see us, Will. They don’t wish to. Why do you think they leave us here?”

He didn’t have much to say to that, so he followed Lecter’s lead.

It was slower, more swaying together than an actual dance, Will thought. He suspected Lecter simply wanted an excuse to touch him. He did that often. Will kept his eyes averted but he could feel the red burning into his skull, a force to be reckoned with, and when he risked a glance upward Lecter was staring at him in that odd way he sometimes did, like he couldn’t quite get enough of whatever it was he was seeing, _willing_ Will to look up. Something in Will’s chest flinched, pained.

Lecter saw it. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.”

“How do you see me?”

“Beautiful,” he said simply. “Like the unforgiving sea dashing my body broken against the rocks. It’s tempting not to fight, to let myself be consumed whole.”

Feeling himself flush, Will broke eye contact. His breath shook on an exhale. “I could love you, I think,” he admitted quietly. Perhaps in some other world.

“I do.”

It took everything in him not to immediately shove Lecter away, to ignore his sudden lack of air and the chill along his spine. He didn’t wait for the session to finish, choosing to take Lecter by the hand and slip away when someone inevitably started throwing a fit over having their toes stepped on.

He dragged them down one of the several dark corridors, barely sparing a glance to ensure they weren’t being followed before he let Lecter step between his legs and push his back against the cold wall. He would take whatever he could get, but he wanted it to be private, and he had to have it now. He dug his fingers into Lecter’s uniform and yanked him closer, crashing their mouths together so hard that he worried he might have chipped a tooth. He tasted blood, he thought. His lungs screamed for air and he refused them, kissing Lecter properly this time. As deeply as he knew how. Lecter met his enthusiasm with the same sort of fire, but older, more experienced, licking into his mouth when Will tried to take a breath, which he then failed at miserably. A whimpering noise that didn’t sound like himself at all slipped out and then he couldn’t stop, feeling so wonderfully crushed beneath Lecter’s weight, held up by the strength of it because his legs were now shaking and weak and incapable of supporting himself. The slide of Lecter’s tongue against his was too much to bear but he _wanted_ it.

When they parted, Will noticed Lecter’s hands were planted on the wall on either side of him. He took it upon himself to lower them to his waist and hold them in place. “You can touch me,” he whispered.

Lecter stared at him in wonder, and Will was so equally captivated that he didn’t see the baton coming until it cracked against Lecter’s skull and suddenly all that the warmth disappeared, and Will was the only man left standing, save for Doemling. To his credit, Lecter recovered quickly, but he couldn’t stand up. His poor balance didn’t allow for it and his eyes were unfocused, confused, perhaps just as stunned as Will was that he could be taken by surprise, and Doemling was walking forward and raising his baton in the air to deliver another blow. Will acted on an impulse, getting his arm around Doemling’s neck and trusting his police training and instincts to kick in, but he greatly miscalculated just how much muscle he’d lost since his imprisonment. He wasn’t strong enough, and perhaps he could have done something cunning instead, but when Doemling threw him off his head hit the hard floor and then he only knew darkness.

When he came to he was vaguely aware of being carried in someone’s arms, and gently laid down on what felt suspiciously like his bed. He opened his eyes and the first thing he thought was that he would prefer to keep them closed, as it hurt to see at all, but he recognized Lecter standing over him and he thought it was strange that his mouth was red. His neck and chest were smeared with blood.

Will recalled their brief encounter with Doemling. “Is he dead?”

“Almost,” Lecter said.

“So go finish it,” Will groaned impatiently.

“Watch your tone with me, farm boy,” Lecter snapped, but he sounded distracted. He quickly ran his fingers through Will’s curls, pushing them out of his face. His thumb brushed a bruise that made Will recoil. “I’ll be back shortly, Will.”

_“Attacking a staff member, take him to room eighteen!”_

Will grunted in confusion, trying to sit up, but there was a hand on his chest pushing him down and suddenly the room felt full of people. It was loud. What was in room eighteen? “Lecter?” Out of all the men in the room, nobody would answer him. His skull throbbed painfully and panic swelled in his chest. “ _Hannibal!_ ” They were taking him away, he realized, and it was all his fault. Suddenly it was very hard to breathe, and there were more hands holding him down. They kept coming, and soon he felt tired, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to shout. His own voice was drifting away from him and he followed it. He hated just how easy it was to let go. Lecter had been right.

He woke up again when he smelled something like sick. He was alone, or so he thought, until he heard quiet breathing that didn’t match his more labored breaths. He squinted against the harsh evening light pouring in through the barred window and looked past the ray of sunshine, easily picking out Lecter lying asleep in his bed. It wasn’t Will who had been ill. He sat up quickly, ignoring the sudden wave of nausea as he stumbled to Lecter’s side and took his face in his hands. His skin was still stained, the blood little more than haphazardly wiped off.

“Where did you go?” Will demanded to know, but Lecter wasn’t responding to him beyond disgruntled and half-hearted growls. He didn’t see any visible injuries. Will shook him lightly and Lecter didn’t fight it. He was so heavy.

Lecter wasn’t in the mood to talk. He might not be capable of it, so Will laid down behind him, hooking a leg over one of his and reaching around to grasp one of Lecter’s hands. He slotted their fingers together and pressed his mouth to the back of Lecter’s neck, inhaling his natural scent of smoke and soap. It made him feel safe. He hoped he was doing something similar for Lecter. A belated, weak squeeze around his fingers told him maybe he was.

The screech of their door swinging open came too soon.

“You’re a free man.”  

He felt the weight of his shoes and clothes, neatly folded, hitting the bed.

“Get out of my hospital.”

“It won’t…” Will started. He didn’t move. “It won’t happen again—”

“You’re _free_ ,” Chilton repeated, curling his lip. “Jack Crawford is waiting outside with an angry mob and an endless stream of photographers for the papers, so get. _Out._ And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll smile pretty and keep your mouth _shut_ about what happened here today.”

“Not without him,” Will said, instinctively tightening his grip around Lecter’s waist. “I’m not going.”

“Yes you will,” Lecter said, just as Chilton snarled, “Lecter is staying right here, where I can keep an eye on him until we _both_ waste away. Crawford will have my head if Lecter so much as sticks a single toe outside of this facility! And so will Cordell, if he survives!” He pointed at Lecter. “I won’t say he didn’t have it coming, but it serves you right, being sick! You _ate_ his _face!_ You monster, couldn’t you have killed him? I don’t want to deal with this!”

“Fuck you,” Will said.

“Don’t do this, Will,” Lecter said, and Will wanted to tell him the same, but he sounded exhausted. Hearing it filled Will with guilt. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. Please get dressed.”

He swallowed his pride and peeled himself away, awkwardly stripping down and changing into the clothes he had arrived in two months ago. They didn’t fit anymore. He fiddled with his pockets, buying time. If he’d had anything of value it had probably been stolen ages ago. “Please,” he said under his breath, unsure of who he was appealing to. Lecter was sitting then, and though he looked like he might tip over at any moment, he moved to stand. Will threw his arms around him and dug his chin into Lecter’s shoulder.

“I’ll get you out,” he promised. “All of you, I swear. I’ll tell the papers. _Everything_ ,” he said, staring hard at Chilton, who had the decency to look horrified. “Don’t touch him, do you hear me? Or it’ll be you who fries.”

“Will…” Lecter said.

“Please. Let me do this. Let me try. I can’t just forget about you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

“I won’t. Never. I…”

There was nothing left to say. There was too much.

Chilton and a nervous-looking group of orderlies led him from the room. He felt Lecter’s eyes following him long after the door had shut behind him. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out at the sharp pain that it caused, as if a string had been pulled taut around his heart. Barney’s hand on his shoulder and sympathetic expression offered little comfort, but the horror beyond that, Barney having seen the scale of Chilton’s abuse of power with his own eyes since his employment, gave Will the hope that maybe some things might change in his absence. He hoped Barney would look after Lecter just as he had before Will arrived. He wanted to stop and ask, to make him promise, but they were moving him along too quickly.

At first he thought it might be the sun blinding him, but it was the flash of the cameras. The cheer of the crowd was deafening and disorienting and he nearly vomited. Before he could process what was happening, he was ushered down the steps and pushed under Jack Crawford’s wing, with the triumphant-looking Freddy Lounds standing at his other side.

“If I see you again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” Will whispered hoarsely.

Jack smiled for the pictures and patted his back in acknowledgment.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got a bigger story for you,” Will told Freddy.

They had been working closely ever since.

As much as Will didn’t like him, it _had_ been mostly Freddy’s fault that he was walking around as a free man. Freddy wasn’t in it for the name of justice, but the promise of fame was a good enough incentive to work just as well as it did the first time it had been dangled in front of him.  

Nearly a year later, Barney hollered his excitement and lifted Will off the ground like he weighed nothing when it went public that the Baltimore State Mental Asylum would be shutting down. Chilton had fired him months prior for refusing to comply with an order, but Barney’s testimony had been the key to Freddy and Will’s success. That and Jack Crawford’s resignation, followed by several more _firings_ of other members of the force, including the chief of police.

Things were changing.

Wading through the congregation of released patients, family members and activists on the steps of the hospital, Will launched himself inside and went in search of the person he most wanted to celebrate with, whose privileges for calls and visits had been repeatedly denied by an unqualified doctor who was now in the wind.

He stopped in an empty corridor, the sense of déjà vu soothing an old ache just as much as it hurt.

He felt those dark eyes traveling over him, _burning_ into him _all the time_ , but he especially felt it now.

“Detective.”

He turned slowly, exhaling at the teasing and warm sound. “Hannibal.”

His sharp vision blurred at the sight of him, dark eyes never leaving the sea green of Will’s until Will lunged forward and hid his face in Hannibal’s throat. He was squeezed so tightly in return that the rest of his breath left him in a rush, on a barely contained sob. He was faintly aware of Hannibal hushing him, of the press of lips to his temple and the fingers tracing his cheek and mouth, the quiet declaration of “ _Will_ ” and at last the never-forgotten soft kisses on his lips.

Outside, he stood in awe of the way Hannibal closed his eyes and savored the sun.

 


End file.
